Stream of Consciousness
by KittyLynne
Summary: Confined to the stadium infirmary after being sacked by the monster lineman Gaou, Hiruma thinks about his team's future and what he wants from his manager. 1/28/12 Update! Part 2 : Mamori
1. Part 1: Hiruma

**Stream of Consciousness  
By: Lynne (aka KL)**  
**Rating:** M  
**Disclaimer: **This not-written-for-profit-Fic is based on the story and characters of Eyeshield 21,  
which belong to Riichiro Inagaki and Yusuke Murata.  
**Warnings**: Profanity. Spoilers for series. Possible bodily contact?  
**Pairing: **Hiruma/Mamori  
**Summary:** Part one of two parts. Confined to the stadium's infirmary after a disabling tackle, Hiruma thinks about his team's future...and what he wants from his manager.

**Part One: Hiruma**_  
_  
No pills. No hospital. Stay conscious.

Come on, fucking brain, keep thinking.

Tiled floor, white walls. Straight backed chairs and iron rail beds. Cotton swabs and bandages in disinfected jars. Sterile smell mixed with sweat, dirt and blood. Close enough to the field to hear what's going on.

It's purgatory for a Devil Bat.

Fucking Eyelashes must be slipping. Thought he'd have had this place set up with an adjustable bed, funerary flowers and a fucking fruit basket since he and his damn manager were so sure I was gonna end up here.

Come to think of it, I was sure of that too. Shit. It's a fucking curse to always be right.

The Fucking Caveman did his best in sending me to oblivion, but I'm not there yet. Right arm hurts like a bitch; there's got to be a couple of cracks, but at least it's not a compound.

Hell, even that wouldn't make me leave. Not until I get what I came here to get.

Never surrender. Pain is a state of being alive. Gotta take stock of the situation and prepare for what's to come.

If I keep thinking, there's still a chance.

Since I refused the ambulance, the fucking stretcher guys are long gone; the assholes bumped and jostled me all the way into bed, which tells me they were either on Marcos' payroll, or too fucking busy drooling over Anezaki to pay attention to what the hell they were doing. Must have been a shocker when she took them out in the hall and read them the riot act for their carelessness. She did it quietly, but I heard. Don't think they'll be coming back for seconds...

The damn manager really came through for me again, like she has all season. No one else could have read my signs and took charge of the stretcher so I could give the damn Fatty a swift kick in the ass.

If certain people have been paying attention out there, by now they'll have figured out that Anezaki's my hidden wild card and the glue that holds this team together.

Tough shit, Marco. You don't stand a devil's chance.

The towel over my eyes keeps me from seeing anything. Anezaki's been trying her damn best to be calm and quiet, but I know what's going on. She's crying. The little catches in her breathing give her away. She better be worrying for the rest of the team. Fucking pity is the last thing I want from her.

"H-Hiruma-kun..."

I grunt in response when she hesitates. In Power Go, that would translate as 'speak up, damn manager, I'm all ears, kekekeke'.

"I didn't say anything to Sena. With this, it'll be all right...won't it, Hiruma-kun?"

As much pain as I'm in, I can't help grinning. Even if she's crying and asking if things will be all right, she hasn't given up on the dream. Anezaki truly believes we can win. She's going along with the plan. She trusts me. Implicitly. And I'm more damn ecstatic about that than over besting her in the battle that's been going on between us ever since we met.

If this was one of those fucking shoujo stories, that could only mean one thing.

Forget it. If I can't get us to the Christmas Bowl, I don't deserve her.

I turn my head to move the towel away and clear my throat to get her attention. Sign language will keep my mind sharp, and takes up less energy than talking. When she looks at me I give her my answer, signing to her with my good hand.

_It'll be a comeback win._

She nods and pretends to smooth her hair back from her face. It's a piss poor attempt to hide that she's wiping away tears, but I don't feel like pointing that out to her.  
_  
"_How about you?" She asks. "You've always carried the team. Don't say it's not killing you not being out there because I know better. Amefuto is your life."

Well, hell. What do I say to that? I more than like hearing that she understands me and that I've succeeded in making her believe that my only passion in life is American football. She's completely clueless that it's not the only one, and I'm keeping it that way. For now, it's the Christmas Bowl or die. If we can survive this... then the sky's the limit.

My hand lifts. _You need to get back to the bench._

She shakes her head. "Not a chance. I'm staying."

_Your duty is done. No reason to stay._

She sighs, then gives me a smile worthy of the Mona Lisa. "Duty has nothing to do with this."

Dammit, I'm not reading anything into that! And it didn't make me feel good!

Yeah right. Then why am I grinning like a moron? Try again, fucking moron.

_Has everything to do with it. Team needs you. _

At that moment, the distant drone of the crowd rises to a roar. I can hear the announcer screaming above the bedlam. A touchdown for Deimon! Adrenaline surges through me, sweeping aside some of the pain. Good for the damn kids! They've come a long way...

"They did it! They scored, Hiruma-kun!"

Anezaki is clasping her hands and beaming like a proud mom on the kids' graduation day. So does that make me the proud dad? No, thinking like that is dangerous. Gotta stick to business.

_That's good._ I sign._ We need more points than them to win._

For once she ignores my sarcasm.

"See? You don't have to worry!" She says happily. "Sena is doing well at quarterback! They're going to be fine!"

Yeah, okay. Time to puncture her bubble of joy.

_It's the third quarter._ I sign_. We have to score four more times and stop them. Marco has figured Sena out by now._

Her smile fades. "They'll still do it. They'll find a way to beat Marco."

_Yes. With help._

Her eyes flash a warning. "I told you I'm not going back out there!"

I'm sick of sign language. My voice is raspy, but it's strong enough to bark signals. "Yes you are. You have to."

"I won't!"

"I'm not making it a request, damn manager!"

"I don't care." Her voice is dangerously quiet at first, and then increases in volume. "You can rant at me, wave that stupid gun of yours around...or fire me if you want! But you can't _fucking_ make me leave!"

She's glaring at me again, but there are tears behind it. Whoa. Showing compassion and mercy is one thing, but no mistaking it, this is more.

She's passionate about taking care of the demon bastard who's given her nothing but grief since he met her. She cares. I don't know why that is, but she does. And seeing it has got me more pumped up than any pep talk.

She even said the f-word. With distinct emphasis.

If I wasn't hurting so bad, I'd have a hard on.

The crowd gasps and the announcer starts yelling. Sounds like the Dinosaurs are back on the rampage. The fucking shrimp did well, but as expected, Marco the fucking spy has made the necessary adjustments.

Our team needs a full arsenal of weapons to win this.

Time to ante up. I'm far less than whole physically, but there's nothing wrong with my brain or my bluffing abilities. As long as I can walk and talk and think straight, I'm going to take back that field. And by her own word of honor, Anezaki's going to be there, helping me do it. I would trust no one else. Be it to heaven or hell, we're going together.

These will be our last moments alone for quite awhile, so might as well take my time looking her up and down. She's looking good. The dress gives a sweet little hint of what's under it without putting it on display. She has no idea what amazing legs and tits she has- no, check that. Not tits. Breasts. With a woman like Anezaki, it should be fucking amazing _breasts_.

There's a pulse beating at the base of her throat. Fast. I'm feeling the impact of those big eyes of hers, and her cheeks are coloring up nicely. Her full lips are slightly parted, and...

... have nothing to do with why I'm here.

Move on with stage two of the plan, fucking moron.

"All right, damn manager. You can make yourself useful right now."

She looks relieved, then suspicious. "How?"

Astute of her to ask. She understands how I work, that I don't give in without reason, a point which will be proved by my using that thing from the past.

The muscles in my abdomen and my left arm scream in protest as I roll and push myself up to a sitting position. It's agony to shift my right arm even a few inches. My groan of pain sends Anezaki flying out of her chair, and I make a move to stand up before she gets to me. Can't let her see that I'm weak.

My dead arm falls off my leg. It hits the edge of the bed. Son of a-

"Hiruma-kun! What are you doing?"

Damned if I know. I want to puke it hurts so bad. Darkness is encroaching on my vision. I can feel the touch of warm hands on my body, guiding me until I'm sitting down again. My broken arm is supported with care and lifted to rest on my thigh. The other follows suit. It hardly hurts at all, or maybe it's because the fucking pain stars are merging into one great big one...

When I open my eyes, Anezaki is kneeling between my knees and looking up at me, just like that night in Texas when she came to me and bandaged up my knee. The Angel of Mercy versus the Demon of Deimon. The night I found out that torture is defined as being able to look but not touch.

Huh. I'm waxing poetic about the Death March in Texas with the Christmas Bowl on the line? Real fucking great, this is exactly why I don't want a girlfriend. They're a distraction and an energy drain. Just spank me and put me on the fucking Cupids' team...

No. Not right. Anezaki and I have something that's a helluva lot bigger and better than what any of those fucking idiots have. We're a brain trust, partners with a shared goal. She loves the team. She understands and loves the game. She wants this win as bad as I do. Having her along for the ride has been worth any distractions. She's made everything better...and _sweeter_, dammit!

She's useful. She's my jolt of caffeine. She's a painkiller and aphrodisiac all rolled into one, something that I can't go without.

'Addicted to Anezaki'.

Kekekeke, sounds like a fucking bad TV reality show.

"Hiruma-kun, tell me what I can do for you."

What can she do for me? Let's see...there are many possible answers to that question. Ninety percent of them have nothing to do with American football.

I deliberately look away from her as I give an answer that does.

"Tape up my arms, damn manager. I'm going back in the game."

**To be continued...:)**


	2. Part 2: Mamori

**Stream of Consciousness**

**By Lynne**

**Warnings: Profanity and spoilers.**

**Part Two-Mamori**

"Tape up my arms, damn manager. I'm going back in the game."

That's what he said.

He's sitting in front of me, now, allowing me to bind both his arms without comment or complaint. Only the beads of sweat on his forehead and a slight grimace clues me into the pain he's feeling.

_Rip. Rip. Rip_.

The sounds of tearing and wrapping echo in the room as I unwind strips of the tape and place them around his wounded limb, binding it as tightly as he can stand it to be bound. There's fever level heat radiating from his bared torso, and his abdominal muscles clench and release as I pull the tape taut.

I work as slowly and carefully as I can without being inefficient.

I need time to think all of this through.

_Rip, rip, rip._

It might as well be the sound of what he's doing to my heart.

Hiruma-kun knew this would happen. He told me it would, tried to prepare me for it, the day he made a surprise appearance at my shoe locker. I know it's a vital part of his strategy to anticipate the best and the worst our opponent will throw at us, and yet I refused to accept his prediction or the instructions that he gave me.

I really thought that by tearing them up and walking away from him, I would prevent the inevitable from occurring.

Chalk up another loss for me.

As the manager of the Deimon Devil Bats, I should be completely immune to any of the surprises and the general craziness that this guy perpetrates to win football games. While others were surprised that he dressed up as a rabbit for field day, I thought it was so fitting. After all, he's pulled rabbit after rabbit out of his bag of tricks to help the team persevere up to this point.

There's always been a method to his madness, a solid foundation of reasoning beneath the seemingly irrational and reckless behavior.

But this is too much.

I knew he had a high tolerance for pain. He showed that on the Death March trip. He pushed himself harder than anyone, and to exhaustion, never letting on when he was hurting.

There was never any question that he'd be able to keep going.

To see him lying on the ground, broken and unmoving, is a sight I never, ever want to see again.

And so it's come to this. After being brutalized by that behemoth, after having his throwing arm broken, he's sitting there and calmly telling me to get him ready to go back to the match! There is no way I'm going to allow him back on that field! There's no way he can play with a broken arm! And I'm going to tell him so, in no uncertain terms!

I put the last piece of tape around his wrist. His hurt arm is lying palm up on his leg, and he's not looking at me.

It's a dead giveaway that he knows I'm going to object to what he's trying to do.

I have to wonder why I'm bothering. It's not like I'm his mother, or his sister, or even his-

I push back my chair and jump to my feet.

"There's just no way you can continue with this arm!" The words burst out of me. I'm yelling at him, for all the good it will do! "I will not-"

"Third question." He says quietly.

He's unarmed, literally and figuratively.

And yet he's still dangerous.

Especially to my peace of mind.

"Third...question?" I ask, warily.

"True or False." He says. "There are idiots in the NFL that have kept playing in a game despite having a broken bone."

He's still not looking at me, but I can see that grin, the one that he gets when he thinks he has me over a barrel.

Clearly, the answer is true. I've read enough accounts of professional American football to know that playing with injuries is the norm and even a source of pride for the players. It's the 'warrior' mentality, showing your physical and mental toughness to your opponent while giving your team a chance to win.

But if I give that correct answer, he's going to use it against me as a reason for him to do likewise.

I ask him about that very thing. I don't expect an acknowledgment, and he doesn't give me one, which is an acknowledgment in itself.

"That's false." I say with confidence. Take that, Hiruma-kun! There's no excuse for you to use to justify this!

"Wrong." He says. "It's my win. As promised, you'll work obediently."

I stare down at the top of his head, shell shocked. What does he mean, 'as promised'? I never-

The memory comes rushing into my dazed brain like a Devil Bat Ghost.

That day in the clubhouse.

The Amefuto quiz with the three necessary correct answers.

My only getting to give two of them before his departure.

He's been waiting all this time to use it.

Tears are welling in my eyes.

But...it's not from sadness or anger.

It's because of him.

He's impossible, using his win to keep me from blaming myself should something more happen to him.

"Idiot." My voice cracks with emotion. "That thing from the past..."

I'm giving in. I must be crazy.

He's getting to his feet, but he's still not looking at me.

"Just keep your promise." He tells me in a low voice. "Fortify the first taping, fucking manager."

And there it is. The profane nickname I've always hated. He uses it to put distance between us.

But it's not going to work this time.

Not when he makes it sound like an endearment.

I grab another roll of tape before coming to stand before him. It's nice to have to look up at a guy for a change; I'm used to towering over the boys at school, but Hiruma-kun always makes me feel as if my height is an advantage rather than a drawback.

His arms are hanging straight at his sides. I want to make this as painless as possible, so I'll scoot under his arm and bring it over my shoulder, with my back facing his abdomen. This way his arm can rest and be supported while I add another layer of taping.

He's strangely quiet as I begin. I can feel his body heat soaking through the material of my dress. He does have a fever. I make a mental note to get him some more ice and Tylenol, and then force myself to concentrate on my fortification effort. If he's going back on the field, then he's going back with as much protection as I can give him.

I finish the taping job by smoothing down the end of the tape. My hand moves up his arm, checking that the tape is as tight as it can be.

He doesn't move, but I hear and feel the catch in his breathing. Am I hurting him?

I ask him, and he replies in the negative.

He's lying, of course. I can feel his tension.

Holding his arm steady, I slide out from underneath, and then lower it gently back to his side.

When I straighten, he doesn't move or speak.

The warm and muscled wall of his chest is mere inches from my face. I stare at it, feeling a hot blush enveloping my face. A new kind of awareness floods my being.

Being this close to him, I can't help but notice just how good looking he is, and that his blond hair and earrings really do suit him.

His shoulders are broad and strong.

And the ears.

I must resist touching those ears at all costs.

He's the devil incarnate. I should not be standing this close to him or feeling this way.

But the devil is also a fallen angel, isn't he? Doesn't it show in the way he's been sensitive to my feelings all the while he's been saying rude and outrageous things? He's treated me like a partner, an equal, has always asked for my input. He accepted my signaling system without question. He protected me from Gaou's bleacher rampage, and he brought me on my first trip to America.

Along with all the frustrations and arguing, there's no denying that knowing him has saved me from a staid and predictable existence. He's stoked a passion for living life all out and the game that we both love.

I can't imagine losing this game.

I can't imagine not being around him.

I don't want to imagine it or I'll start crying again.

I find the courage to glance upwards. I'm expecting to see the grim and faraway gaze of a warrior who is preparing to go into battle.

Wrong again.

He's looking straight at me, and there's something in his eyes that makes my knees want to buckle. A kind of desperation and...hunger?

I can't even think of protesting when his good arm wraps around me and brings me up against him. It feels...way too good.

My trembling hands find their way to his sculpted pectorals. He must be able to hear my pounding heart.

This is madness. He's just messing with my head. He's not going to do anything.

Is he?

"H-Hiruma-kun? Are you ready?"

"Not quite yet, fucking manager."

That's all the warning I get.

In the next earth-shaking moment, his mouth is on mine.

Oh my God! It's my first kiss!

His lips are warm and bold. They demand a response from me, which I can't hold back.

They part, and I can taste spearmint. Is...is that the touch of his tongue?

Oh God...help me...

My head is swimming, my bones have turned to water and the bottom has dropped out of my tummy.

When he pulls back-too soon-my eyes fly open and I stare mutely at him.

He stares back. I can see fire in his eyes before he looks away from me.

I wait, knowing he's going to break the mood.

"That's better! Couldn't have you fucking blubbering all over the bench! Kekekeke!"

I glare at him. So insufferable! Stealing my first kiss for something like that!

This is what I get for caring, this is what I get for falling in-

I turn out of his grasp, and put my back to him, crossing my arms. I don't care if he knows that he's hurt me. "Just so you know, that was my first."

He stops laughing. I feel him come up behind me just before he whispers in my ear.

"That'll be fucking great motivation for the next time."

He straightens as I whirl around. "What next time?"

The grin is back, but it's not scary. He looks almost...happy.

"That's for me to know and you to find out, fucking manager!"

As I silently fume, he turns and starts to stride to the door, then stops and looks over his shoulder at me.

"Let's get going, Mamori."

And then he's gone.

I grab his helmet and follow him out the door.

He's going to need me to help put it on...

* * *

**Is this...The End?**

(Probably, unless people tell me they want an epilogue...^^)

Thank you for reading!


End file.
